Big Striped Bass, And What It Takes

I stood in my mud caked boots looking at Noah's Lone Star skiff high and dry and seemingly stuck, wondering how we'd get it out. We'd just caught a few hours of sleep on a small uninhabited island after a slow evening bite, keeping ourselves in game for the morning. It was false dawn and with about 15 feet of mud between the stern of the boat and the water, I wasn't sure we were still in game.

My angling success is mostly a result of determination, brute force, and thinking out as many details as I can. But that doesn't mean I'm immune to getting into silly and avoidable situations. This was one such occasion. I'd not bothered to look at the tide at all and we were now faced with one of those moments when fishing doesn't seem that fun. We turned the boat and forced it bit by bit back into the water, getting very muddy in the process. And it wasn't too bright yet either. Of course, it didn't matter, in terms of bites the morning would be even slower than the evening had been.

Catching larger striped bass is, to me, a game of fewer bites. Noah, whose largest bass is shorter in inches than mine is heavy in pounds, feels differently, and prefers to catch as many as he can in hopes of catching a larger fish than his 33 inch personal best. This is a minor point of contention and certainly where he and I differ most as fisherman. It's rare that we end up out looking specifically for big stripers together, and it doesn't help that I've made these sort of marathon trips work and he hasn't. My confidence remains high as long as there's some signs of life around, and we had that. So I cast a big lobster buoy popper all evening and all morning, till my hands were raw and stripping so much had worn a grove in my right pointer finger and made my left arm was sore. I know what it takes, and I'm willing to do what it takes... because I've made it pay off a couple times. And those times felt so good that I'd trade almost every bass I've caught under 26 inches for a handful over 40. Big striped bass on the fly is a hard thing to do and only getting harder. Though every striped bass is special and should be treated as such, big ones are really, really special. They don't come easy and they don't come often. And when the do come you'd best be ready.

I wasn't looking at my fly when she came, but I was ready. About 30 feet off the bow the popper got blasted and I strip set into a big animal. She sloshed, righted herself, and bore off with determination. It was clear what I had, she certainly wasn't huge but she was one of the largest bass I'd buried a fly in. I didn't give her an inch I didn't have to and she was at the boat quick... likely just over 20 pounds, this bass was more than worth the price of admission.

I don't like how infrequently I'm able to get after these fish. I've wanted for years to have a whole season to just chase striped bass from Jersey to Maine and back, this certainly isn't the year and it feels like I'll never get to do that. But I have to for my own sake. It's one of those things that I don't want to do but need to do. It'll kill me, that trip. But I'll be happy most of the time. There's something broken deep inside me that's even happy while falling on my knees in the mud trying to push a small aluminum skiff back into the water, getting beat to hell by waves, bitten by no-see-ums, or waking up in a sweaty car seat smelling like death and still tired. I love what it takes to make these things work... that's where the story is. I look back on my fishing career and it's not a string of grip-and-grins with great fish, it's a long twisting road of misadventures, pain, terror, silly jokes, strange encounters, and very rarely, moments of unadulterated ecstasy. I wouldn't wish some of it on my worst enemy, but I'd also not want to live a life without it. 

“Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming, “Wow what a ride!”― Hunter S. Thompson, The Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967

Until next time,

Fish for the love of fish.

Fish for the love of places fish live.

Fish for you.

And stay safe and healthy.

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